


Narratives

by WayFish



Series: Looking In [3]
Category: The Following
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic Violence, Feelings, Hotel Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Trauma, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayFish/pseuds/WayFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What you said about doing something you can’t live with. I think I did that thing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narratives

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and final part of the "Looking In" series and it involves an OC. So please read the first two parts. Enjoy and comment!

Narratives about the FBI are a lie, thinks Ryan. There are a lot of unglamorous, unsavory, boring parts that they gloss over. Like the ever exhausting hotel room after hotel room after hotel room part. The oscillating between eating nothing and eating only out of vending machines. The mini bar as a food group. The stale stiff cloths. Ryan didn’t miss this part at all.

****

It was already late by the time he pulled the rental into the hotel parking lot. He’d had to shake Parker awake and walk her, half asleep, to her room. Ryan wants to sleep. He thinks, maybe, a couple more drinks and he would probably be out like a light. But lying in the dark and letting his mind wander unabated is the last thing he wants to do after this day. He can still hear Parker, echoing in his ears. “I blame you for that.” Joe sneering at him. Weston screaming. “I blame you for that.” So he keeps himself busy. Pours some scotch from the mini-bar into a cup of coffee from a vending machine and spends what little is left of the evening, in his boxers and undershirt, scrubbing stains from his collars.

****

He’d figured that something was wrong by the fact that Weston was there at all. Because he’d personally seen the happy couple off at the hospital. And at the time Teddy, the boyfriend, had been adamant; Weston would not be coming back. Not for a few weeks at least. But now he was here. And whatever had happened, it had made him dark. “I blame you for that.”

****

Ryan pushed the thought from his mind and tunnel visioned in on a dark spot that he hoped was not blood on the cuff off a shirt. He tries to think of banal things. Like his mailbox and his washing machine. And his bed. And his favorite coffee shop. And his refrigerator. And his freedom to stand in it’s yellow glow and eat straight out of it in the middle of the night. Ryan hangs his wrung out, mostly cleaner clothes strategically over the heating vents and says a prayer to whatever god to make them dry by morning. It took him seven years of service before he learned that trick and he laughs and says to no one in particular, “Maybe they’ll let you teach a class at quantico. The Art of FBI Living: Laundry and Ruining Your Relationships.”” He’s suddenly wants very much to go home. Or rather he wishes that Carroll would let him.

****

And then there is a pounding on the door. Ryan starts to reach for his gun. But then he hears giggling, faint from the other side. And he knows who it is before he even opens the door.

****

Mike leans heavy on the doorway and gives him a long once over before casting a look back into the room at Ryan's improvised laundry line. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

****

“Weston, this is me channeling your father again. Turn around and take yourself right back to the hospital.”

****

He lets out a barking laugh. He’s cleaned up and bandaged. And there’s a bottle of tequila dangling from his fingers. Ryan catches himself wincing at the smell. Of course the frat boy would drink tequila.

****

“No thanks, Pops. I checked myself out a few hours ago.” Weston shouldered into the room, slammed the door shut and slammed Ryan up against it, kissing him hard. “Hi,” he says, grinning, and starts mouthing his way along Ryan’s jaw.

****

For a second Ryan wonders if it's a cruel trick. Because this can't really be happening. It's no longer a possibility. He'd closed himself off to this. But somehow, still, Weston is warm and hard and pressing flush against him, kissing him like he’s hungry, and slipping his hand beneath his shirt.

****

“Mike. Mike, what are you doing? What about -”

****

“Don’t worry. What happens on the road doesn’t count,” he says dreamily. And as much as he doesn’t want to, Ryan pushes him away.

****

“How much have you had to drink?”

****

He dissolves into another bout of giggles. “It’s part of our policy. I’m away a lot. So what happens when we’re apart is off the record. It doesn’t count. Plus, I mean, it was sort of his idea.”

****

“Oh?”

****

“He thinks I need to get you outta my system.”

****

“Well then.” Ryan knew he liked the kid for a reason. And he pulled Mike up by his shirt to taste him again.

****

Mike laughed drunkenly against his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

****

Ryan has always thought there was something inherently and indefinitely good about going to bed with someone who’s as strong as you. There’s a struggle to it, a delicious push and pull he can’t get anywhere else. He doesn’t like that Mike is considerably more dressed than he is. And Ryan scrambles to shove his jacket off his shoulders and yank the blood stained t-shirt up over his head. He likes the idea that there can be a winner. Or at least a person that comes out on top. Mike drags him toward the bed, lips almost never leaving his skin. And Ryan shoves him down flat on the mattress, maybe a little too hard

****

He lets out a hiss. And Ryan starts to apologize but Mike catches his bottom lip in his teeth.

****

“You sure you can..?”

****

“Ryan,” he says, almost sweetly. “Please know that I say this with the utmost respect." And in one lithe move Mike flips him onto his back and pins Ryan’s wrists to the pillows above his head. “Screw you.”

****

Ryan thinks maybe this is a struggle he is willing to lose. He hears the neck on his t-shirt pop and tear as Mike yanks it down to kiss his neck.

****

“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Mike breaths.

****

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

****

He laughs again. But Ryan isn’t joking. He wants this to last. He want’s to touch all of him, press his lips to all of him and slowly make him come undone. But Mike is already racing ahead. Kissing hard. Pulling away to kick off his boots and shimmy out of his jeans. Mike straddles his chest, threads his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and says, “Show me.”

 

* * *

 

****

After and after again Mike collapses on his chest, breath hard and shallow and his shoulders slick with sweat. Mike's bandages on are scratchy on his skin. But the rest was dirty and slick and wonderful. His breath is hot on Ryan's neck and his curls are soft on his cheek and Ryan can’t keep from smiling.

****

“That was... You’re fucking amazing. Send Teddy my regards. I mean, he is one lucky son of a...“

****

Mike let out a bitter laugh and pressed against Ryan’s chest in an attempt to get upright. “You might have to tell him yourself,” he said, but didn’t quite manage it.

****

“Here. Let me...”

****

“Don’t,” he snaps.

****

Ryan doesn’t listen, holds Mike to his chest and rolls them both onto their sides. “You weren’t ready for this,” he says. Weston is shaking all over, shielding his stomach with his hands. “This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t have... You should have let me...”

****

“I’m good, ok!”

****

Ryan laughs and smooths back his hair. “You were better than good...” It's a paltry attempt to sooth his ego and keep this from ending. But all of a sudden Mike is retreating, rolling out of bed with an effort, pulling on his briefs and fishing on the floor for the lost tequila.

****

“What did you mean, ‘...Tell him myself’?”

****

Mike shrugged. “I didn’t leave on the best of terms. I don’t know if he’s waiting for me with open arms.”

****

Ryan’s not great at this. The sharing thing. So he hopes that if he lays there and stays quiet Mike will feel the need to fill up the silence. But instead he sits back down, propped against the headboard with the bottle against his chest. And the silence stretches on.

****

Mike sighs and rolls his eyes. “Really?” he says. “You just fucked me and now you want to talk about my relationship?”

****

Ryan held up a hand in surrender. “You two seemed in pretty good shape last I saw you. And that was six days ago. I’m just surprised, is all.”

****

“What you said about doing something you can’t live with. I think I did that thing.”

****

It strikes him that for the first time in a long time, possibly since he was stabbed, Ryan is afraid. So much had happened and what really scares him is what Mike is going to say next. Mike unscrewed the cap on the tequila with clumsy fingers and took a long draw.

****

“My father, he never laid a hand on my mother,” he said. “Or any of us for that matter. He wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing. Instead he got drunk every night and cornered her and screamed at her. Called her... terrible things. Broke her down. Kept her so scared he didn’t have to hit her.”

****

“Mike...”

****

“No,” he said. “Teddy took me home. And he was... Perfect, wonderful. He wouldn’t leave me alone for five seconds without asking if I was ok. And he cooked and he changed bandages and took off time from work and made stupid jokes so I would feel better. He was amazing. And  I don’t know why, but after a few days I was just so angry. Not at him. He was just there so...”

****

His eyes went glassy and Ryan wished he were the type of person that knew how to hug well, that he could just gather Mike close and hold him until the sad look on his face was gone.

****

“I picked stupid fights. And I yelled. And I said... Well I guess it doesn’t really matter what I said. But I was shitty and I said it. And thank god Teddy’s nothing like my mother. He’s not afraid of anything. Doesn’t take shit from anyone. Definitely not me”

****

“He threw you out?” said Ryan.

****

“No. He was sane and sensible, like a normal person. He did fucking internet research on PTSD. Told me that aggression is a symptom. Along with night terrors. And he reached for me. And I... I didn't hit him. But I curled up a fist like I was going to. And the noise he made. Like, like a wimper. It was so loud. And so fucking scared.” He let out a shaking breath and screwed his eyes shut as tears spilled down his cheeks. “I didn't do it. But for a moment I thought I would. And I swore I would never be that sort of man. So I left. I left him crying in our bed and walked out.”

****

Ryan peeled the bottle from his hands and pulled him close. Mike clung to him, hiding his face against his shoulder.

****

“Now I’ve lost him. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to live it down.”

 

* * *

 

Mike cries quietly until he falls asleep. And Ryan holds him, his skin damp and warm and it’s all wrong and confused. But what isn’t? And Ryan’s last thought, before sleeps pulls him under, is that he's just grateful he got to feel this at all. Even if it is wrong. And even if it was only for a little while.

 

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes again it feels like only minutes have passed. But light is pouring orange and pink through the slat blinds and beyond that he sees Mike, curled into the cracking patio furniture, phone pressed to his ear. He rakes back his hair and nods in agreement to whatever is being said on the other end of the line. Ryan can hear him, only faintly through the plate glass.

****

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I love you. But I need to get my head back together first.”

 

* * *

 

They part without much drama. Take turns showering. Mike is hung over. Ryan loans him a clean shirt. They get dressed. Make as little eye contact as possible. His room is on the ground floor. So Ryan leaves through the front door. Mike leaves through the back.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it until two days later, after another unfruitful chase. Another set of bodies. Another late night. And they end up in another government issue vehicle on the way to another anonymous motel room.

****

Mike pulls the car over in the circle of a street light and throws it into park.

****

“What are you doing?”

****

“Talking.”

****

“Jesus, Mike...”

****

“No. Not like that. I just... Things got kind of raw toward the end of that night. I dumped all my problems on you, at the most inopportune moment. And I just, I hope you don’t think that I used you as the means to some sort of messed up end.”

****

Ryan almost laughed. “Trust me. I knw that’s not what happened.”

****

“Well I’m grateful. And I needed you to know that I really did want to be with you. I wanted-”

****

“Was it really your boyfriends idea,” Ryan asked, motioning between them.

****

Weston smiled. It was the first time in days. And his cheeks flushed a furious shade of pink. “Day one I called to tell him you were consulting. He said, he told me I should try to... Yeah. It was really his idea.”

****

“So are you two sorted out?”

****

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I have a lot to figure out first.”

****

“But does he want you come back?”

****

Mike arches an eyebrow at him. And if he’s honest Ryan’s not totally sure, himself, why he's asking. Why he's so invested. But he is. He wants them to have a good ending. Albeit untraditional. And sure the protagonist was flawed.

****

“Yes. He does. But I think we’re gonna take it slow at first.”

****

There was room for redemption.

****

“You know, until I get things together. I... I start meeting with the bureau shrink in a couple weeks. Hopefully this will all be over by then.”

****

And who didn’t like an open ending?

****

“That’s good. I’m glad for you. I mean, glad your putting things back together.”

****

“Yeah?”

 **  
**“Yeah.”


End file.
